Diomedes staggered into his chambers, his vision slightly blurred, the warmth of the feast's laughter and music fading as an unsettling weakness crept over him. He closed the door behind him and leaned heavily against it, his breath steady but shallow. The sensation was foreign to him, a disquieting imbalance in a body that had always been a fortress of strength. He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to collect his thoughts.
Three tankards of ale. That was all he had consumed during the feast. In the past, he had drunk far more without consequence, often at the insistence of his comrades after battle. His body, a masterpiece of discipline and training, metabolized alcohol swiftly. Even inebriation was rare, and yet here he was, lightheaded and unsteady.
Something was wrong.
Diomedes stumbled to the basin of water near his bed and splashed his face, hoping the cold would help clear his mind. It didn't. He sat heavily on the edge of the cot, his muscles sluggish and his thoughts clouded. The realization hit him like a thunderclap.
"This isn't from the ale," he muttered aloud, his voice steady despite the unease gnawing at him. His hand curled into a fist, the memory of the feast replaying in his mind.
It was the toast.
The goblet of wine delivered by the maid. A drink he had taken without question, thinking it a gesture of goodwill from Princess Andromeda. His brow furrowed as he recalled the moment. Andromeda had signaled the maid with no hesitation, her expression calm and sincere. Could it have been her?
He shook his head. No, it didn't make sense. Andromeda's reputation was one of honor and grace. She had no reason to harm him, not when her own fate was tied so closely to his success. If he failed, she would be bound to marry one of the princes—a fate she clearly despised.
His mind turned to the princes. Rhesus was an obvious suspect, his disdain for Diomedes barely concealed during the feast. The Thracian prince had glared at him with open hostility, his jealousy palpable. But no, Rhesus was too direct, too impulsive. A man like Rhesus would prefer to face his enemies head-on or have them struck down by assassins in the dead of night. Poison was not his style.
Then there was Prince Ageon of Athens. Diomedes's jaw tightened. The Athenian prince had exuded an air of cunning from the moment they met. His words during the feast had been overly saccharine, his praise dripping with insincerity. This kind of subtle attack—a poison that weakened but didn't kill—was precisely the kind of move an Athenian would make.
"They've underestimated me," Diomedes said quietly, his voice laced with determination.
He stood and moved to the center of the room, forcing his unsteady limbs to cooperate. His mind raced, analyzing the situation. If the poison's purpose was to weaken him rather than kill him, it was likely slow-acting and designed to avoid suspicion. That meant he still had time to counter its effects.
Diomedes lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged. He closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply, his heightened spirit aiding his focus. His body, while affected, was far from ordinary. Each of his five-dimensional stats—strength, agility, stamina, physique, and spirit—was ten times that of an average man. This gave him an advantage that his enemies could never have anticipated.
He visualized the poison coursing through his veins, an intruder that needed to be eradicated. His breathing slowed as he entered a meditative state, his mind connecting with his body on a deeper level. He directed his energy inward, willing his body to metabolize faster, to purge the foreign substance from his system.
Minutes turned into hours as he remained in that trance-like state. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his body working overtime to burn through the toxin. Occasionally, he flexed his muscles and performed light exercises to stimulate his circulation. Every movement was deliberate, every breath calculated.
As dawn's first light crept through his window, the dizziness had faded. His limbs no longer felt heavy, and his mind was clear. He rose to his feet, feeling the familiar surge of vitality that came from his extraordinary abilities.
"Ageon made his move," Diomedes muttered, his voice steady but cold. "But he failed."
He paced the room, his thoughts now focused on the bigger picture. This wasn't just about winning the games or securing Andromeda's freedom. This was war—a battle of wits and survival. Ageon's actions had escalated the stakes, and Diomedes intended to respond in kind.
He approached the window and looked out over the city of Argos. The streets were quiet, the people still asleep. But within the walls of the palace, plots were brewing, alliances forming in the shadows. Diomedes would need to tread carefully.
"Let them come," he said, his gaze hardening. "I'll show them why they call me the Hero of Argos."
With that, he began his preparations for the day ahead.
________________________________________
Prince Ageon of Athens, cloaked in a dark tunic to avoid recognition, had made his way to the private chambers of Tritius, the man responsible for organizing the tournament.
Tritius, a wiry man with sharp features and an eye for opportunity, greeted Ageon with a mixture of respect and suspicion. He had seen enough political intrigue during his tenure to know that a prince visiting him in secret could only mean trouble—or profit.
"Prince Ageon," Tritius said smoothly, bowing slightly. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"
Ageon did not waste time with pleasantries. He reached into his pouch and withdrew a small bag, placing it on Tritius's desk with a soft clink. The unmistakable sound of coins caused Tritius's eyes to flicker with interest.
"I require a small favor," Ageon said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Rearrange today's matches. I want Diomedes of Argos to face the Spartan champion."
Tritius's brow furrowed, though he did not immediately refuse. "A bold request, my prince. But such an adjustment could raise questions. The matches have already been announced, and the people expect—"
"The people expect to be entertained," Ageon interrupted, his tone cold. "A clash between Diomedes and the Spartan will do just that. Besides, the champion of Argos will fall against such an opponent, and no one will question the outcome. His loss will appear natural—inevitable, even."
Tritius hesitated. "And if the king inquires? Such decisions are not taken lightly."
Ageon leaned closer, his piercing gaze locking onto Tritius. "The king will not notice, and even if he does, you will remind him that the tournament is meant to test the mettle of champions. No one can argue against pairing the strongest with the strongest." He gestured to the bag of coins. "This should ease your concerns."
Tritius opened the bag and inspected its contents, his greed outweighing his apprehension. Gold glinted in the morning light, more than enough to ensure his cooperation.
"Very well," Tritius said, nodding. "Diomedes will face the Spartan warrior in the next match."
Ageon smiled, his expression predatory. "Good. See that it happens."
With that, the Athenian prince departed, leaving Tritius alone to make the necessary adjustments. As Ageon walked back to his quarters, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The poison from the previous night would have weakened Diomedes, and now, facing the indomitable Spartan, he would surely be defeated. Ageon's plan was falling into place.